


gather frankincense

by Lise



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 4: Pawn in Frankincense, Dark, Enemies to Still Enemies, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, The Author Regrets Nothing, The author did too much research, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, an absurd amount of references, as they say: yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 06:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: After their failed attempt at escape from Constantinople, Francis Crawford makes a deal with the devil.





	gather frankincense

**Author's Note:**

> So I first read this series back when I was fifteen years old and loved it. Came back to it a decade and change later and loved it even more, and also came out of it wondering _how in hell_ I did not pick up on the sexual tension between Lymond and Gabriel, because _it is right there on the page_ and also exactly the kind of thing that is my jam. 
> 
> It took me way too long to write this fic, partly because of obsessive research I did possibly to avoid actually writing and partly because I am a neurotic mess who was terrified of stepping into writing for this very intimidating fandom. You're all so _smart._ But here I am, with a very dubious present for all of you. 
> 
> With immense thanks to [sirjohnsmythe](http://sirjohnsmythe.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for giving this a read over, and for everyone there who apparently is on board this terrible ship with me. Feel free to come say hi [over there](http://veliseraptor.tumblr.com) \- I dearly love this tiny fandom.
> 
> Check end notes for references/translations. Heads up that the sex in this is non-explicit but definitely there, and also only the thinnest _possible_ gesture toward consensual. I kept the "dubious consent" warning, but it really is, at most, barely short of rape. Just not violent. Ye've been warned.

The Janissaries did not take Lymond’s senseless body to the cell with the others of his luckless company, but to another room instead, richly furnished, where he was deposited limp and graceless on the carpet. He was left unbound, and the Janissaries retreated, leaving only two men enclosed within. Graham Reid Malett, former Knight of St. John, called Gabriel, stood by the door looking down at the man crumpled on the floor, and smiled, then locked the door behind him.

He did not touch him now, only watched, eyes lingering on the delicate hands, the shadowed eyes, and whatever thoughts were behind his bright blue eyes were silent and invisible, only a hint of a pleased smile visible around the mouth. After a lengthy consideration he walked over to a chair and sat, apparently willing to allow Lymond to wake on his own.

When the time came he did not stir, barely a flicker of an eyelash betraying a return to consciousness. Just the same, Gabriel shifted in his chair and smiled. “Open your eyes, Francis,” he said. “Your companions are not here. I thought it time for a private conversation.”

The eyes did open, then, though only just. “How kind of you,” Lymond said. Despite his recent unconsciousness and the circumstances preceding it, there was no strain in his voice. “Are we to commence negotiations, then?” 

Gabriel laughed. “Negotiations? No. You are here to choose the terms of your surrender.” 

Lymond moved to a crouch, though he did not yet try to stand. “I don’t recall speaking of surrender.”

“Ah, but you would speak of it,” Gabriel said. “For Mr. Blyth, perhaps, or your distaff mirror. The two children. The girl, Philippa Somerville. Or will you try to feign indifference for their safety?” 

“I suppose now you will inform me of the gruesome consequences they will suffer should I prove disobedient,” Lymond said. The smile faded, but the self-assured amusement remained. 

“Need I?”

Their gazes met, neither flinching. At length, Gabriel rose. 

“Let me be clear,” he said. “I am giving you some choice, my sweet, in your fate. I have all the material I need to have you and your companions lawfully executed.”

A spark lit in cornflower blue eyes. “And yet you have not. A flaw, perhaps, in your confidence?”

“No,” Gabriel said. “Rather, I feel it would be...a waste.” 

“ _Innahu la yuhibbu l-mus'rifīna_ ,” Lymond said. “How noble of you. Does that mean you intend to let us go?”

Smiling, Gabriel stepped closer, though he did not bend down. “And discard such an incomparable treasure?” he said. “I think not. In St. Giles I told you that I would have made of you a prince. But you declined that grace.”

“Was it grace? It seemed like something else.”

“I would have taken you as an equal,” Gabriel said, his voice lowering. “But now, you ruined, wastrel creature...I will take you as something else.”

The muscles coiled, the tail of a scorpion about to sting. “Consider carefully,” Gabriel said. “There are six lives depending on what you do now, Francis...and you are not what you were. How long will you - can you - endure without another dose? I understand the pain is excruciating.”

He didn’t relax, but neither did he move further. “Your concern touches me,” Lymond said, “but I am quite capable.”

Gabriel’s lips curved. “Who should I have killed first? Would you like to choose?”

There were several beats of motionless silence, and then Lymond did stand, though the cost of the effort showed slightly in a tightening around his eyes. “ _Bemiuchar keuarenu kevor eth methiecha_. You said,” he said, “you were offering me an opportunity to choose the terms of my surrender.”

“So I did,” Gabriel said. “You have been defiant from the beginning, my dear. It is time you learned to bear a proper master’s yoke.” And before Lymond could speak, he added, “or would you exchange places with _Durr-i Bakht,_ the Pearl of Fortune, Philippa Somerville? I should be interested to see what she may have learned in the Seraglio.” 

Lymond was still. When he spoke, his voice was very flat. “I take it,” he said, “that you have deemed yourself that proper master?” 

“Who else?” Gabriel’s gaze remained level, unmoving. “Come. Francis. How many must die for the sake of your pride?”

There was no flinch, no sharp intake of breath, but the dart struck home. After some silence, Lymond said, “release the others. They are no use to you.”

“I shall let go the strangers,” Gabriel said. “But Jerott remains. And Philippa, and the children, as surety of your...obedience. So long as you behave, they live.” 

“And remain untouched,” Lymond said, eyes hard. 

“I told you already that this is not a negotiation,” Gabriel said, his voice perfectly cool. “Accept the terms or do not. You know the price of refusal.” 

The silence between them stretched. “O Lord, truly I am thy servant,” Lymond said. “I accept.”

* * *

He was allowed to wash, closely observed. The bruises were salved, blood wiped away. The clothes he had been wearing were taken away, replaced by fresh in the Ottoman style. Despite the tension of Lymond’s body, no objection was made aloud, despite the fact that Gabriel was not there to listen. Lowered eyelids masked any expression in his eyes, and there was no fracture in his mask of phlegmatic indifference. 

Once polished, two Janissaries returned him to a different sitting room, well appointed with two chairs. One was already occupied. Between them was a table with a decanter of wine, two glasses, and a plate with a yellow cake on it. Lymond stopped by the door, and he did not so much as glance at the table or what was on it. 

“I would like to see my companions,” he said. 

“You do not trust I should keep my word regarding their safety?” 

“No.”

Gabriel smiled widely. “That is a pity. It is all you will have. Sit.”

Lymond stayed where he was. “I have no reason to believe you,” he said. “And many not to.”

Standing, Gabriel walked slowly toward Lymond, their gazes locked. He stopped just before him, and moved to strike him across the face. Lymond reacted quickly, with long-trained instinct, slipping away from the blow and moving to strike his own only to stop short when Gabriel cried, “the children, my dove!” 

Hands falling to his sides, Lymond held very still. Gabriel’s smile was gone. 

“It seems you have misunderstood your position, Francis,” he said. “You do not ask favors. You do not fight me. If I want to punish you, you will take it. If I command you to kneel, you will. You are a recalcitrant creature, but you will learn to bend. Or I will break you.”

Expression closed, Lymond’s half-lidded eyes followed Gabriel as he drew close and looked down at him. His head turned with Gabriel’s slap, skin reddening, but he made no sound.

“Sit,” Gabriel said, his voice no longer so friendly or so calm. After a long, tense second, Lymond did; Gabriel joined him. The light of candles made his golden hair shine. 

“Onophrion Zitwitz was yours,” Lymond said. It was not a question. 

“I sent him to watch you, yes. The opium...that was his own invention. Revenge, I suspect.”

“For nearly killing you at Zuara.” Lymond’s eyes stayed on Gabriel’s face; the corners of the latter’s lips turned slightly upward.

“You have a remarkable strength of will,” he said. “Can you not smell it? How long has it been since your last dose? You must be craving it a great deal by now.”

“My lord is gracious,” Lymond said, “but I must decline.” 

A flash of ire, quickly smothered. “Very well. But if not now...I will have you crawl on your belly begging for the drug before offering again.”

“As my master wills,” Lymond said coolly.

“Indeed,” Gabriel said. “As he does.” He sat back, lounging, and gestured at the wine. “Pour for us.”

Lymond’s placid expression did not shift as he measured out the two glasses, taking one himself and offering the other to the man sitting across from him. He simply held it, however, not drinking. “So you haven’t taken to the abstinence the Prophet demands?” he said. 

“I would not call myself a convert.” 

“No,” Lymond said. “I suppose you would not, believing in nothing but yourself. He needs no other God, who places himself in that throne. But you desire a more earthly seat, I think.”

Gabriel’s smile was condescending. “Of all my desires,” he said, “that is not one you need concern yourself with, my dear.” 

“Am I meant to ask what desires I need to concern myself with?” Lymond asked, voice still light; not precisely indifferent, but not much affected either. 

“The rest,” Gabriel said, and gestured at Lymond’s untouched glass. “Drink, be merry. You’ve already ruined yourself with opium. Surely a glass of wine is not too much an indulgence.” 

“I am not in the mood for indulgence. Is there a purpose to this pageantry, o my Pasha?” 

“Save that it is my pleasure?” Gabriel regarded him with a touch of amusement. “You would rather I tied you to a whipping post and had you flogged?” 

“You would gain marks for consistency,” Lymond said. Gabriel took a slow sip of his wine and set the glass aside, and stood, turning his back and walking slowly to an ornate cabinet. Lymond’s body tensed as though to spring, but held, poised and waiting.

“You have submitted to me,” Gabriel said, “but you are not broken. You pull at the reins like one of the Arab horses. I would expect nothing less from you.” He turned. “But when you yield to me, it will be total. Not in body alone, but in mind. And for that purpose, brute force will not suffice. That much your spirit can endure; your weaknesses, sweet Francis, are other.”

Pale eyebrows arched slightly. “A fine speech,” Lymond said, after a silence a moment too long. “A mummer could not have performed it better. Shall I give one of my own?” 

Gabriel’s mouth tightened, and he closed the space between them. Lymond turned his head with the expected slap, but pale skin still colored at the blow. “ _Scortillum petulans,_ ” he sneered. “You will learn better to mind your tongue in my service.”

“ _Consuetudinis magna vis est_ ,” Lymond said. “I will sit quietly as a Carthusian henceforth.”

“I am sure you will.” Gabriel looked down at him, expression substantially less pleasant. Lymond’s blue eyes were conspicuously blank.

“The Aga Morat,” Gabriel said suddenly, voice soft. “Did you enjoy his hospitality?”

“Better, had it been shorter,” Lymond said without a flinch. Gabriel shook his head, the vicious smile returning.

“I suppose he cannot have been the first,” he said. “With how many others have you played the catamite? The stories one hears of your exploits in the French court...but you were no novice then.”

Lymond’s face closed. “If you seek to insult me,” he said, “find better weapons. With turpiloquio, a lay of sorwe, and Luciferis fithele...accusations of depravity have little weight from you.”

“Your Haukyn’s coat is far from clean,” Gabriel said with indifference. “I do not insult...only ask out of curiosity.” The corners of his lips curled. “You must know your own beauty. Your son carries it as well.” 

Only a flicker of eyelashes gave any sign of the internal shudder at the reminder of a threat, but there was no other response. Some slight disappointment registered in Gabriel’s face, though his smile held. He returned to his chair and sat. 

“If you will not drink, you will entertain,” he said. “I understand you have some gift for music. We shall have a spinet, and you will sing for me.”

“And what shall I play?” Lymond asked, and for the first time there was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “What sweet music would suit my lord’s delicate ear?” 

“I shall let you choose, my swan,” Gabriel said lightly. “I am sure you can think of something appropriate. Or do you think your hands will shake too badly?”

“I think,” Lymond said, “that you should know better than to ask pearls for the swine.”

Blue eyes darkened, and Gabriel said, “come here.” Lymond was still a moment, then rose fluidly and walked slowly over, looking down with sardonic arched eyebrows. “I would see you on your knees,” Gabriel said coolly. “And pray do not fight me. I only have so much patience, and there are...others, who perhaps would be more amenable.” 

Lymond knelt, but under half-lowered eyelids was a contemptuous look. Gabriel moved a hand to rest on the golden head, pressing down. 

“Stay there, my _tellak,_ until I release you.” His voice lowered, thumb stroking pale-silk hair as though unaware of the shudder that ran through the body under his hand. “I _will_ break you, Francis. I promised you an anvil, but this...I like this better.”

* * *

Gabriel finished his wine slowly. At his side, kneeling, Lymond was very still, body perfectly controlled, eyes lowered and thus hidden. Gabriel ignored him, at least until his cup was empty; then he set it aside and moved his hand from the crown of Lymond’s head to his jaw. He drew the lowered gaze upward; a gaze that showed nothing at all. 

“So you are capable of obedience,” Gabriel said. He released his grip and stood once again, the warm smile returning. “Stand, Francis, and follow.”

“As you command, my Pasha,” he said flatly, and stood. “But tell me your wish, and like the jinn I shall grant it.”

“Indeed,” Gabriel said, unperturbed, and opened the door into the bedroom. “Disrobe. But leave your trousers for now.”

Lymond did not immediately move to do as he was bid. “Lechery schal ben hys fode,” he said. “You intend to follow in your sister’s footsteps, then?”

A brief flash of temper, quickly smothered. “Your clothes,” he said, harder. “Joleta and I shared many things, but never a bed warmer. You might have been the first.”

“Such an honor,” Lymond said flatly, but he began to undress. 

Gabriel stood back, watching, his smile back in place. As Lymond dropped his shirt to the floor, Gabriel’s eyes dropped a fraction to the mark carved into his shoulder. Bare skin gleamed in the light of the oil lamps, even the wasted body still beautiful. A hunger crept into Gabriel’s expression and he drew two steps closer, slowly. 

“Do you celebrate all your victories thus?” Lymond said. “Or only the ones won by threatening women and children?” 

Sir Graham struck him again, but casually, without anger. “Do I need to gag you?” He asked. “Or should I find other ways to still your viper’s tongue?”

“I leave that to you, Pasha Jubrael,” Lymond said, with acute irony. “Not my will, but thine.”

“And you shall be crucified,” Gabriel said, “upon the cross of your own arrogance.” He walked slowly around behind Lymond, noting the slight tension of his shoulders. He reached out slowly and ran two fingers down the line of a scar. “Is this one of mine,” he asked, “or a mark of the galleys?”

“I couldn’t possibly say.” 

The fingers moved to the brand. “And this...perhaps it is time for a fresh mark, for your new owner.” 

There was a very slight twitch under Gabriel’s touch, and he smiled. “A sign burned into your flesh. So you would not forget.”

“I doubt that I will, brand or not.” Lymond’s voice was glacially cold. “What sign would you use? The eight pointed cross of your erstwhile Order?”

“I think my initials would suffice.” He laid his hands heavily on Lymond’s shoulders and leaned toward him, breath tickling the back of his neck. If there was fear, or discomfort, it was yet invisible. “So _still,_ my dove. Is this how you were with your Irish whore?”

A brief, tight, intake of breath, and Gabriel’s smile widened. “Ah,” he said. “Does that sting? Does it burn you to know that if you had never touched her, she would not have died, been flayed and stuffed with straw in a foreign land?”

After that inhale, the iron control returned. “If you wish to fence, my lord, grant me a rapier,” Lymond said. “Otherwise, make better sport.”

“Not fencing,” Gabriel said. “A siege. The outer walls are breached but the fortress stands...for now.” He circled back in front of Lymond and studied him, hands loose at his sides, still fully clothed. “Come,” he said, “and kiss me.”

Lymond did not move immediately. “Francis,” Gabriel said reproachfully. “Will you give to the Aga Morat what you will not grant me?” 

Lymond’s expression twitched briefly with a flash of contempt before it was walled away and he stepped forward, angling his chin upward. Gabriel closed the last of the distance between him, hand seizing cornsilk hair and pulling his head back hard. He waited then, however, for Lymond to move of his own accord to bring their mouths together.

It was not gentle. Far from gentle; it was another step in the war that had been waged since the moment Lymond had opened his eyes. A battle he was losing, but forcing Graham Malett to fight for every step. If only Graham Malett did not seem to relish the battle as much as the victory.

When he pulled away there was blood on Lymond’s lower lip, and Gabriel’s breathing was a little faster, a little harder. “Yes,” he said, voice low and rich, the voice that had convinced men to follow him and do his bidding. “Discarding you would have been _quite_ the waste.”

“A waste,” Lymond echoed. “Something here is, but I disagree with the judgment on what.” 

Gabriel’s lip twitched toward a sneer. “And still,” he said. “You cannot hold yourself back, can you? No restraint. No _discipline._ This is why you are so sorely in need of a hand on your rein.” His fingers were still tangled in Lymond’s hair like an anchor holding him still. “Down,” he said. “Let us put your tongue to better use.”

“Better?” Lymond said with a trace of irony. Gabriel’s eyes darkened. 

“Yes,” he said. “Though of course, you were not trained in the Seraglio.” The weight on the words was deliberate, and when Gabriel released Lymond’s hair and pushed he knelt down once again. The smile that spread across Gabriel’s lips was cold and satisfied. 

* * *

It was not a coupling, but a conquest. Another move in this intimate war.

Half the satisfaction was in the victory, in having brought the opponent to submission. Though only half. 

Fingers threaded in pale blond hair, touch a mockery of gentleness. Lowered lashes masked any expression in cornflower blue eyes but could not mask the tension in his shoulders, or slightly too-quick breathing.

“ _Francis_ ,” Gabriel said, like he was savoring the name, voice low and rich. He pulled, drawing back Lymond’s head, forcing his eyes upwards. There was a harsh edge to Lymond’s inhale and a faint flush spread across his cheeks.

The hatred, at last, was shown clearly, a vicious loathing unmasked. “A purely spiritual love,” he said.

“You have a good memory,” Gabriel said. He did not loosen his grip on Lymond’s hair. “My handsome, hot-blooded slut.”

Contempt twisted Lymond’s mouth. He did not quite spit, but his expression suggested he wanted to. Gabriel stood above, untouched, and released his hold, stepping back. “Stand,” he said. “Undress me. And then yourself.”

“As my gracious lord wishes,” Lymond said, the words woven through with scorn. He stood, and Gabriel’s hand flashed out, grasping his jaw. Lymond’s own hand seized his wrist only to stop, catching himself before retaliation.

“I permit your insolence for now,” Gabriel said, “because it is meaningless, and because it entertains me. That may change. Mind yourself. Remember your pride is not the least thing you might lose.” 

“Your warning is duly noted,” Lymond said, stepping back.

“Consider it a gracious gesture.” Gabriel paced in a slow circle, watching Lymond undress, the slow sweep of his eyes hungry. 

“I imagine,” he said idly, “you have been told how beautiful you are.”

“Innumerable times,” Lymond said dryly.

“Then I won’t repeat it.” Gabriel laid his hands on Lymond’s shoulders and breathed on his neck; he could not have seen the slight tension of the jaw, but his smile was pleased. “I could wish to have been the first to possess you.”

“You could,” Lymond said, with a tone of perfect neutrality.

“I do.” 

“We all live with some disappointment.”

Gabriel laughed; the indulgence of one utterly secure in his triumph, and circled back to face Lymond, the two of them once more locking eyes, two wills yet matched one against the other. The smile hardened.

“Back,” he said. “Against the wall. I will not have you squirm away from me. Not,” he added, “that you would get far.”

Lymond did not go. Not immediately, holding in place just a moment too long. 

“Don’t press me, my sweet,” Gabriel said softly. “Remember you are not my only option. Or do you want someone else to take your place?”

Lymond’s nostrils flared very slightly. Then his eyelids lowered, masking his gaze once again. He took one step back, then another. 

“That’s it,” Gabriel said, and closed.

Taller and broader than Lymond, he boxed him in, back to the wall and leaning in. “I can be kind,” Gabriel murmured, lips almost brushing Lymond’s ear. “Serve me to my satisfaction. Show me due deference. Demonstrate that you can bear a saddle and bridle. Perhaps I will even let the girl go, in time. She will return to England with her reputation stained, but no more than that.” 

His hand caressed over Lymond’s hip, and a very slight shudder went through the rest of his body. “Kind? _Credam facis,_ Pasha.”

Gabriel seemed amused. “Or not,” he said. “Either way, I shall enjoy myself. But if you would prefer to suffer, I can certainly oblige.” 

He leaned forward and claimed Lymond’s mouth. When he withdrew, Lymond’s lower lip was bleeding. 

“Bend,” he said, “or break.” He pushed Lymond back and curled his hand around him, almost tenderly. Lymond gasped on a breath, eyes closing. After that one shudder, he did not tremble, almost perfectly still. 

“You are mine now,” Gabriel said, and the words were weighted like stones.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I did a borderline (“borderline?”) absurd amount of research for this fic, allow me to indulge myself by flexing my research muscles and showing off some of the references I pulled from, because I felt like my first Lymond fic should be properly referential. Or at least I should try.
> 
>   * _Innahu la yuhibbu l-mus'rifīna -_ “Indeed, He does not love the wasteful.” From the Quran, 6:141.
>   * _Bemiuchar keuarenu kevor eth methiecha_ \- “Bury your dead in the choicest of our burial places.” From Genesis 23:6, transliterated with 16th century Hebrew-to-English conventions.
>   * “O Lord, truly I am thy servant.” - Psalm 116:16
>   * “ _Consuetudinis magna vis est_.” - “Custom has great power.” (Essentially: “Old habits are hard to break.”) From Cicero in the _Tusculan Disputations._
>   * “With turpiloquio, a lay of sorwe, and Luciferis fithele…” From _Piers Plowman_ , 13.456 _._
>   * _Tellak -_ A term for Turkish bath boys who doubled as male prostitutes in the Ottoman Empire.
>   * “Lechery schal ben hys fode.” From _The Castle of Perseverance._
>   * “ _Credam facis._ ” Translates simply to “believe deeds” but is an abbreviation of a line from Terence’s _Hecyra_.
> 



End file.
